How Far We've Come
by the ticking clock
Summary: Because John Watson was Sherlock's best friend, and no one was ever going to change that.  A series of drabbles and one shots focused on Sherlock, John, and their friendship
1. Chapter 1

**My first Sherlock story, so please be nice :)**

**each chapter will have two little one-shots. they may be long, or they may be short, it depends. i NEED prompts! Please send me any ideas you may have. the prompt can be one word, two sentences, as long as you want. But I need inspiration, so please, send me something! **

Sherlock had never truly cared for anyone.

His whole life he had struggled to control his wild moods and overactive mind. When he was a child, this had meant isolating himself from people, sitting alone, and simply watching as life rushed and moved all around him. He had learned to occupy himself with science, because it was something that he understood, something that made sense and calmed his racing thoughts.

His work had consumed his life-it was all he truly cared about.

Until John.

He saw something in this man-this sad soldier-that embodied some of his own emotions. He saw the crave for adventure, the curiosity. But there was also something about this man that calmed him, that stilled his wild thoughts like science and work did. And he knew, that just like when he had been a young child, he had found something that he cared about.

* * *

><p>John balanced Sherlock out.<p>

Where Sherlock was fire and adrenaline, John was calm and somewhat nervous. He asked himself several times a day _why _he was here. Why he had decided to move into this flat with a man he had just met-who just so happened to be somewhat crazy. Sherlock lived for trouble. His work came from murders and serial killings for God's sake, but John saw that underneath all that, there was something likable about the damaged man, who was so childlike in many ways.

Sherlock gave him adventure, he gave him a purpose again.

But more than that, he gave him a friend.

**please let me know what you think, and remember to send me a prompt or two :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you ElvishRangerApprentice, for the prompt: Music, and for inspiring me with the word, Guns.**

**please leave your thoughts in a review, and keep sending me more prompts! I will use them :)**

The nightmares of war still haunt John.

Some nights, he wakes up panting, adrenaline surging through him as if he is still on the battlefield, fingers groping across the covers as if he is searching for a gun.

But then he remembers that it is over now, that he is safe, and on the worst nights, he starts to cry.

He hates it, really, truly hates it-because it makes him feel weak. He shouldn't cry-he was lucky enough to get out alive. So many others weren't. But maybe that is why he is crying, because he is alive, because it wasn't him. Because so many other's were still missing or fighting in a stupid, violent war.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and rocks back and forth on the bed, struggling to bring his heart beat down to it's normal rate, and to banish the bloody images from his mind.

For once, it is quiet in the flat. Sherlock isn't up banging around doing some experiment, it's as silent as a grave. And the haunting shadows seem to be laughing at it him, taunting him.

But then he hears it.

Sad, lingering, as sweet as the trill of a bird, the music flows under his door. It seems to fill the room, seep into his being, echo in his ears as if it is the only thing he has ever heard before.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he stumbled out of bed, squinting as his eyes struggle to see through the darkness. His hands brushes the door handle, and he turns it.

Sherlock is lying on the couch, his ankles crossed,violin propped on his shoulder, fingers moving rapidly over the strings, his other arm gently sawing the bow back and forth across the instrument, wringing beautiful, haunting notes out of it.

John can only stare, to surprised to move or say anything. He knew Sherlock had a violin, he knew that the detective sometimes played it(if only to annoy his brother) but nothing could have prepared him for this. Sherlock, who was normally so wild and throbbing with energy, laying peacefully on the couch, coaxing such amazing sounds from the instrument.

His friend glances over, his eyes half lidded, appearing almost faded in his pale face, his dark hair and the shadows hiding the majority of his expression. He doesn't say anything. They stare at each other, while Sherlock continues to glide the bow of the strings, and the beautiful music fills the room.

As the song ends, Sherlock dips his head slowly in a nod, his lips twitching up into a smile. John nods back.

They don't need to say anything-in truth there is really nothing left to say.

But whenever John wakes up with a nightmare now, he always falls back to the sleep with the sweet sound of violin music.

* * *

><p>The explosions seem muted to Sherlock's ears, the rapid gunfire fading into the background as he ran, his fingers locked into the material of John's shirt, dragging his panting friend along with him.<p>

His mind is racing, working, and he feels such joy, such excitement, that he always feels during a case. He feels...he feels...

He feels like himself.

How sentimental.

The muted sounds are louder now as he is forced back into reality, and his overactive thoughts recede into the back of his mind. He glances back at John, and the doctor grins at him.

Sherlock just has time to smile back before the world exploded all around them, and he fell into unconsciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was a strange child.

Mycroft had always known it. His little brother was obsessed with science, puzzles, and people. He never went close to them, he just watched them with his bright blue-green eyes, watched and learned.

Mycroft approached his brother as he sat alone in the park, his knees drawn up to his chest, staring at a group of chattering girls. Not in the way young boys normally looked at girls-dreamy and hungrily-no, he was watching them with narrowed fascination.

"Sher," Mycroft said, sitting down next to him. "Why don't you go talk to them?"

"Why should I?" His brother murmured back absently, still staring at group, his eyes narrowing even further.

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Sometimes I don't understand you."

"No one does," His brother replied almost sharply, and stood, dusting the dirt off of his pants. "Come on then."

Sherlock took them the long way home for some reason. They twisted their way through ally streets, dark and foreboding places that made Mycroft want to run. Why was Sherlock taking them here?

"Where are we going?"

No answer.

"Hey there, Freak!" The voice was mocking and loud, and Sherlock froze at the noise, forcing Mycroft to step back to avoid running into his brother.

'We were wondering when you would come out to play." Gangs. Oh shit.

Mycroft grabbed his brother's wrist. "Come on, Sher..."

"That's right, walk away." The group of tall, lanky boys was coming closer and closer, forcing the two brothers back against the wall. "Try to hide. You can't do it Freak."

Sherlock was tense, his eyes flashing from one boy to the other, and Mycroft could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

He prayed his little brother wouldn't do something stupid.

As the leader approached, Sherlock's arm swung out, his closed fist catching the other boy in the jaw, sending him reeling.

Stupid.

The other boys yelled, to distracted for a moment to move.

Sherlock was already running, dragging a stunned Mycroft along with him.

They careened wildly down dirty streets, rainwater and filth splashing hungrily against their legs, soaking their pants. Sherlock stumbled and fell, cracking his head against the pavement.

Mycroft grabbed his brother's arm and yanked him upright, forcing him to keep running. He did not care for a moment how cold he was. All he knew was that they had to get away from those boys. Boys that he couldn't protect his little brother from.

They crashed inside a store, knocking over bottles and goods, sending elderly ladies running and store mangers shouting. But Mycroft and Sherlock just stood their.

Sherlock was bleeding, the ugly wound dripping red down the side of his face, and he was trembling, his fingers still clenched tightly about his brother's wrist.

"You all right?" Mycroft demanded, griping his little brother's shoulder, hard. "Sher?"

"I'm fine." the boy touched his temple, wincing a little as his fingers probed the wound. "That was...that was..."

"Terrifying?" Mycroft suggested, raking a hand through his hair and working on slowing down his pounding hard.

"No," Sherlock said, and now a grin was playing at the corners of his mouth. "I was going to say exciting."

And in the middle of the store, surrounded by broken glass, one arm around his little brother, Mycroft burst out laughing.

* * *

><p>John had never known to brother's like Mycroft and Sherlock.<p>

He came home to the sound of shouting, and violent violin music. Sighing, and resigning himself to the wild storm of emotions he knew he would find beyond the door, he stepped into his flat.

Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, his lip bloody, eyes flashing, brandishing his violin bow like a sword. Mycroft stood leaning against the wall, nursing a black eye, somehow managing to look dignified, despite his disgruntled expression.

Sherlock didn't even look to see that John had come in. His eyes were fastened on his brother. "Get out."

"Me?" John was surprised. Sherlock had never spoken to him like that before.

"No, you idiot!" Sherlock snapped, turning finally to look at him. John saw that the right side of his face was shadowed with the beginnings of an ugly bruise. "My darling _brother. "_

_ "Sherlock." _ Mycroft sighed, obviously annoyed. He stepped away from the wall, crossing his arms. "This is childish."

"I am clean!" Sherlock shouted, stabbing the violin bow at his brother.

John's eyes widened in surprise. He had heard Lestrade mention drugs around Sherlock before, but...

Mycroft threw himself down on the sofa and groaned. "I was only checking."

"Get out."

"No."

"Out."

"No, Sherlock."

"John!" Sherlock finally turned to him, practically spitting in rage. It was somewhat comical. "Tell him to get out."

Now this _was _childish. John almost laughed. "Sherlock-"

Glaring at his brother, Sherlock placed the violin delicately, slowly on his shoulder and began to saw viciously at the strings. The violin screamed in protest at the abuse, and Sherlock played harder, determined to wring the worsts sounds possible out of the instrument. John resisted the urge to cover his ears. He did not know if he wanted to laugh or scream at his friend for being so child-like, but that was one of the infuriating things about Sherlock.

Mycroft threw up his hands. "I'll return within the week. Do try and act your age, Sher."

Sherlock's only response was to drag the bow more harshly against the violin. John was afraid one of the strings would snap under the pressure.

The door slammed.

Sherlock lowered the bow, slowly, eyes narrowing. "John, do feel free to shoot my brother the next time he comes by."

Biting his tongue to hold back laughter, John went to the cupboard and started rummaging around for food. "Tea?"

"Thanks," Sherlock replied curtly, throwing the violin down and running his hands through his curly hair. "The sugar is next to the fingers-don't touch them."

John spun around. "Fingers?"

Sherlock shrugged, still not looking at him. "It's an experiment."

**Thoughts? reviews are appreciated. Prompts are amazing :)**


	4. Chapter 4

The violin was crying.

Normally, John was not so poetic, but that was the only adjective he could find to describe the haunting sounds emanating from the instrument.

Sherlock stood at the window, his eyes closed, gently moving the bow back and forth across the strings, his fingers dancing delicately across the instrument, wringing beautiful notes from it.

He was weaving back and forth as he played, dancing almost.

"Sherlo-"

"Shh."

John sighed loudly, flipping the next page of the newspaper. Something was wrong, and Sherlock was not expressing it. Not that he ever did, but John was normally able to tell if something was bothering his friend. This time though, he had no idea.

The haunting music continued all night, and Sherlock showed no sign of stopping. He paced back and forth along the flat, his eyes half lidded, guiding the bow so delicately across the violin, the haunting sound echoing in John's ears.

He was not aware of when he dosed off, only that Sherlock's voice cut easily through the dream.

"John."

There was something in his friend's tone that was...off. Sherlock sounded almost afraid.

"What's wrong?"

"I feel..." Sherlock slowly lowered the violin and pressed both hands to his temples, shaking his head slowly. John noticed that his breathing had accelerated to a quiet pant. Medical training kicked in, and he stood, stepping closer to his friend, "How do you feel?"

"Strange."

John half laughed, catching his friends arm and propelling him towards a chair. To his surprise, Sherlock did not protest. "You're going to have to tell me more than that, Sherlock."

"I feel...tired." Sherlock shook his head, his voice still carrying that soft, puzzled tone. "I'm never tired when I have a case."

"You don't have one," John reminded him. "You haven't had a case since yesterday-is that what's bothering you?" His hand moved instinctively to his friend's wrist, meaning to check his pulse, but Sherlock slapped it away.

"I'm trying to help," John said mildly.

"Shut up,"

"What?"

Sherlock let out a low groan and grabbed his hair, tearing at it. "Shut up! you're hurting my head."

"I'm not doing anything!"

Groaning again, Sherlock slapped his pockets. "Where is it? where did you hide it?"

"Okay, no, no, no..." John said quickly. "No smoking. that's not going to help."

"yes it will. My head isn't clear, and it has to be!"

"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous. When was the last time you slept? ate?"

Sherlock cocked his head as he thought. "Few days ago."

The doctor in John nearly had a heart attack. "You haven't slept or eaten in a few days?"

Sherlock nodded absently, still massaging his temples.

"Dear God..." John stood abruptly, pacing. "Go to sleep."

"I can't."

"You just said you felt tired!"

"No...i said I felt strange, not tired!" Sherlock flung his head back against the pillows of the couch, half laughing, half coughing. "I've never felt like this before. Not quite."

John scrolled through his list of contacts as he sat down beside his friend. "You were never ill as a child?"

Sherlock looked at him like he was insane. "A few times. It was rather drastic."

"Oh God." John put the phone to his ear and threw a blanket over his friend. "Go to sleep."

"This is childish."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, John sat down in the armchair. "Yes, Mycroft? No, it's nothing serious...not like that. It's just-" He glanced over at Sherlock and smiled. The detective was already asleep, one arm thrown carelessly over his eyes. "You're brother's sick."

* * *

><p>John changed Sherlock.<p>

Mycroft saw it the instant he met the two together. John brought something out of his little brother that he hadn't seen in...

Well, that he had never seen before.

Sherlock had always been cold, detached, his overactive mind only calm when he was working with science or figuring out a problem. John gave Sherlock a new purpose, and Mycroft saw the bond instantly.

He was almost jealous, in a way.

Because John gave Sherlock what Mycroft had never been able to give. A kind, caring, friend. Someone on whom Sherlock could always count to have his back.

John was the brother Mycroft should have been.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you SketchbookPianist for the prompt "rain" :)**

**part of this has mild spoilers for Reinbach Fall...so read with caution. Let me know what you think with a review!**

Sherlock did not know what had made him do it.

Perhaps it was the emotions-the fiery emotions that he normally only felt when he was on drugs or had a case. But as he had stepped out of the car, they had hit him, hit him like a bullet, hard and fast.

He gasped and staggered, shaking his head slowly, automatically bringing his hands to his temple, as he did when he needed to clear his mind. But his thoughts were as clear and as sharp as crystal.

"Sherlock?" John was concerned. He took a half step in front of Sherlock and looked at him in confusion. "Are-are you okay?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock breathed, his eyes widening. The emotions were uncontrollable, burning through him. "never better."

John narrowed his eyes.

"I'm clean," Sherlock reminded him, unable to make his voice sharp. "it's just..."

"Just what?" John demanded, crossing his arms.

"I-I feel..." Sherlock shook his head and spun in a little circle, flinging his arms wide. "John!"

"What?" John shouted, exasperated now. "What, Sherlock?"

Sherlock let out a laugh-a truly delighted, childish laugh that seemed to come from his whole being. He shook his head, flinging his wet hair out of his eyes. "I love the rain!"

"Dear God," He heard John mutter, and over the sound of his own delighted laughter, Sherlock heard his friend calling his brother, saying it was a medical emergency. When Mycroft picked up, John said only a few words, but they were enough to send Sherlock back into another fit of hysterical laughter.

"mycroft, you're brother's gone mad. He's dancing in the rain!"

Sometimes, only sometimes, Sherlock liked to give into his childish fantasies and memories, and dancing in the rain was one of them.

Wild emotions indeed.

* * *

><p>John was Sherlock's best friend.<p>

Only a best friend would follow a sociopath into dangerous situations. Only a friend would force Sherlock to eat when he was on a case, or drug him so he could sleep for a few hours. Only a friend apologized for Sherlock's behavior. Only a friend made Sherlock come alive-made him laugh. Only a friend made the detective do things that he would never have done before, made him go to extreme measure that he never would have gone before. Only John was able to control Sherlock during one of his "danger nights" and John was the only person Sherlock could fully trust, besides his brother. And he did not know if he could fully trust Mycroft sometimes.

John was his best friend. And Sherlock had cherished that bound from the instant they met.

He only regretted it now, when he was standing on the rooftop of the hospital, phone in hand, struggling to hold back the tears as he whispered two words, "Goodbye John."

And even the high sound of the wind rushing past his ears as he fell could not block out the sound of John's horrified scream. "SHERLOCK!"

And for just the smallest instant, Sherlock wished he had never met John Watson, because to cause your best friend, your _only _friend such pain was criminal.

So when John goes to visit Sherlock's grave, and when he kneels on the ground crying, Sherlock allows one small bit of emotion to show. His friend deserves that.

"I'm sorry," He whispered, and he hoped that he was imagining the salty liquid falling down his cheeks.


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm afraid Sherlock is a bit Out of Character in this one...let me know what you think!**

**thank you ElvishRangerApprentice for the prompt "John is injured during a case" and my sister, for the prompt, "danger night" Keep sending me prompts, I WILL use them!**

It happened in a blur of motion.

John was still unclear of how exactly the bullet had struck him. He was standing in the shadows, watching Sherlock's back, when the screaming sound of a shot had echoed in his ears. Years of military training forced him to the ground, but the bullet was faster than he was.

For a moment, he felt absolutely nothing.

And then the pain.

He had been shot before, wounded before, but the agony never seemed to lessen. His shoulder was on fire-his shoulder that had already been wounded in Afghanistan. Blood, hot and stick was slowly soaking his sleeve. He bit his lip, hard, to keep from crying out and curled in on himself.

"John!" Sherlock's cry was hoarse. John could hear the rage in his voice.

And then the sound of his friend snarling like an animal, more gunfire-

Clenching his eyes shut, John tried to block out the noise. It was only increasing the sharp pounding behind his eyes, and he needed his head to be clear so he could think-

But it hurt...

He must have blacked out, because Sherlock was suddenly beside him, his voice frantic, worried. "John? John what happened? God, please tell me you aren't hurt! John!"

John had never heard that note in his friend's voice-fear. Actual fear. Sherlock Holmes was afraid.

In that moment, whatever doubts John had had about their friendship absolved. Sherlock's worry was enough to assure him that the dective did have feelings after all. He would have laughed, if he could have. As it was, he managed a tight smile and looked up into his friend's pale face. The right side of Sherlock's head was caked with blood, but he didn't seem to notice. "Well, I have a bullet in my shoulder," John said, projecting the sarcasm into his voice, "but other than that I'm perfectly fine."

Sherlock managed a tight smile, his features relaxing somewhat in relief that John was lucid enough to joke. He put the phone to his ear and started talking-his words coming out seemingly in one long breath. "Lestrade, get an ambulance. Now. John's hurt. I'm fine! NOW!"

He flipped the phone closed, and his worried eyes flashed back to John. "Are you all right?" He dug his fingers into John's uninjured arm and leaned closer, narrowing his eyes as he observed John's reaction.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John sighed, forcing himself not to wince. "I've had worse."

His friend only cursed under his breath and jumped to his feet, flipping his phone open again. "Lestrade! I said NOW!"

They solved many more cases together, but that particular night always stood out to John. The night that Sherlock proved that their friendship meant just as much to him as it meant to John.

The night that John felt like he truly did have the best friend in the world.

* * *

><p>John heard the phone ring and picked it up immediately, knowing who it would be. "How is he?"<p>

Mycroft response was tense, short. "It's a danger night. Stay with him. Call me if you need anything."

John sighed and closed the phone. Sherlock's danger nights were always stressful, and slightly frightening for him. Seeing his friend so high strung was not easy.

The door opened and Sherlock stepped in, his eyes raking the apartment, hands clenched into fists.

"Sherlock," John said, working to keep his voice light. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

Sherlock ignored him. He stored across the room and threw himself down into the chair across from John, tapping his finger's restlessly, his eyes still flickering back and forth, back and forth. John sensed an explosion coming.

"God!" Sherlock shouted, and John steeled his nerves so he would not jump. The detective sprang to his feet and began to pace, tearing at his hair, his expression twisting into a frantic scowl. "John-"

"No." John said as calmly as he could.

Sherlock let out a low moan that might have been a sob and clenched his hands into fists, pounding one against his leg. "I can't John! I need-"

"No."

"Oh God!" The sound was a raw shout, torn from Sherlock's throat like the moan of a rabid animal. "God..."

Hesitantly, John approached his friend, reaching out to catch his wrist. To his surprise Sherlock did not pull away.

"No." John said the work quietly, softly.

A shudder ran the length of Sherlock's body, and a real sob escaped his throat.

He turned to look at John-his eyes red-rimmed and wild, his mouth twitching, jaw set. The expression was so vulnerable, so child-like, so desperate that John almost backed up a step. Never had Sherlock displayed his emotions like this. He had always been as hard and untouchable as glass on his "danger nights"

"John." Sherlock whispered. "Oh God...John...I can't-"

And with another low moan, the detective pulled his friend into an embrace and collapsed against his shoulder, racking sobs shaking his whole body.

For a moment, John was too shocked to move. And then he wrapped his arms around his friend and simply held him, held him while Sherlock cried out his frustration, his agony and his pain into his friend's shoulder.

Sherlock's danger nights are stressful for John, but in a way he welcomes them.

Because Sherlock's "danger nights" are when he releases all of his emotions, his pain.

Danger Nights prove that Sherlock Holmes is just as human as the rest of us.


	7. Chapter 7

**:) hello! here's are next little chapter. I didn't use any prompts, because I wanted to devote special time and make the prompts I did receive long and well-thought out, and I don't really have the time for that tonight...but I WILL write them I promise! please keep sending me prompts. I need them! They can be one word, a sentence, a fragment of dialogue, ANYTHING. just please send me as many a you can come up with!**

**and please review! **

It was over in a matter of seconds.

There was a flash of silver, a scream, the echoing sound of a gunshot, and Sherlock was alone in their flat, dusting his hands off and wiping the blood of his chin. He sat down in his chair and pulled out his violin.

Only one assassination attempt, and it was nearly noon.

His lips twitched into a smile.

Maybe this wouldn't be such a boring day after all.

* * *

><p>His phone buzzed, waking him. John groaned and pressed his palms against his eyes. trying to clear the sleep from his mind. A quick glance at the clock told him it was close to 3 in the morning. that meant only one person could be texting him...<p>

_Come_

_ ~SH_

John groaned again and leaned back, relaxing against the comfortable blankets of his bed. His eyes drifted half-closed.

the phone buzzed again.

_I'm at the Yard._

_ ~SH_

John threw an arm over his face and rolled over, curling in on himself. his phone vibrated in his palm, startling him.

_Don't bother ignoring me, John. it's not working. _

_ ~SH_

sighing, John swung off the bed and slipped his shoes on, still blinking sleep from his eyes. He briefly considered the absurdity of the situation. A year ago he could have never imaged this. But then a year ago, he wouldn't have been able to sleep through the night.

_John?_

_ ~SH_

He was at the door know, one hand shoving his gun into his belt while he texted,

_Coming._

He waited only half a second, his hand on the doorknob, before his phone buzzed again.

_Could be dangerous._

_ ~SH_

John grinned at the familiar, expected response and ran out the door, barely managing to close it behind him as he left the flat, sure that tonight(or this morning...) was going to be another interesting and thrilling case with his best friend.

And suddenly, he didn't mind being woken up anymore.

**reviews and prompts make me happy :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you PurplePurplePurple, for the prompt: Sherlock doesn't see, he observes, John doesn't hear, he listens, and ElvishRangerApprentice, for the prompt: the first time John find's body parts in the fridge. **

**please keep sending me more prompts! I love them, and I will use them :)**

**oh, and review, pretty please? **

Sherlock was often accused of "seeing" through people. He despised that word. "Seeing"...he did not "see." Idiots could see. Dogs could see. _Anyone _could "see."

Sherlock did not see, he _Observed. _

He observed everything-every sneeze, every speck of dust, every drop of water, every smile, every frown, every twitch of an eye or mouth. He observed emotions-powerful, human emotions, and yet he did not fully understand them himself.

Observing other people and their emotions as a child was a way for him to _understand. _Understand why mummy raised her voice, understand why the teacher would smile at him, understand why the other boy's teased him. He could never have learned all of that by simply _seeing. _

John on the other hand...

John did not hear. He did not hear what Sherlock was trying to tell him, he did not hear the unspoken words, the hidden message. he did not hear the emotions behind the voice, he did not hear the soft whispers of wind that could indicate when they were being watched. At times Sherlock found it tedious.

But John _listened. _

He listened to Sherlock whisper to himself, listened to the violin music at ungodly hours of the morning, listened to the press and the media. He listened whenever Sherlock did find a way to articulate his emotions. They balanced each other out-observe, listen, see, hear, feel, not-feel...

And sometimes, Sherlock wondered if there were ever two friends who were more fit for each other.

He doubted it.

* * *

><p>John did not think that carrots were supposed to look like that.<p>

He picked up the plastic bag and squinted at the contents. No, carrots were certainly not supposed to be so thick, so...grotesque.

He shook the bag experimentally, and the "carrots" moved and rubbed against each other in a sickening, slopping way.

These were not carrots.

"Sherlock..." John called, still squinting at the contents of the bag. "What is this?"

Sherlock, who was lying on the couch with his eyes closed, five nicotine patches decorating his arm like some kind of bizarre tattoo, turned his head in John's general direction. "What is what?"

John came into the living room and held up the bag, shaking it so Sherlock could hear the noise. "Um...this."

The detective slowly turned his head towards the noise, his eyes flashing open, their blue very colorful against his pale face. "put those back!"

The urgency behind his friend's voice surprised John. "Okay..."

"You didn't touch them did you?" Sherlock sounded almost frantic. "Did you?" without waiting for a reply, he snatched the bag from John's hand and held it up to the light, eyes narrowing. "30 seconds exposure to warm air...that will delay the-"

"What are you talking about?" John finally demanded.

Sherlock, still muttering to himself, half ran to the fridge and all but threw the bag inside. He slammed the door and blew out a breath. "don't touch those."

John rolled his eyes. "Why?"

"It's an experiment."

"A-" Something clicked in John's head. "An experiment? but..."

"Honestly, John," Sherlock sighed, returning to the couch and throwing himself down against the pillows. "I knew you were slow, but I at least expected you to deduce something."

Used to the dectives verbal barbs, John did not bother responding to that. "What was that?"

"Oh? in the bag?" Sherlock said absently, pressing the tips of his fingers together and closing his eyes, a sign that he was in deep concentration. "Fingers."


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you ElvishRangerApprentice and who is sabrina for the prompts: Sherlock you're making me nervous, and John is used as sherlock's guinea pig during a case. I hope these characters aren't to OOC...**

**please keep giving me more prompts! i love to write them!**

John was used to Sherlock's wild moods, his energy and his need to constantly be thinking, moving _doing _something, but now his flatmate was starting to worry him.

Sherlock was pacing , tearing at his hair, muttering under his breath occasionally exclaiming and throwing himself down in a chair, only to jump to his feet and start the cycle all over again. This would all have been relatively normal, if Sherlock hadn't been doing it for three hours straight.

"Sherlock-"

"Shh!" The dective spun in a circle, motioning with his hands if he was talking to someone else his eyes half closed. He was stumbling more than pacing now, and John was afraid he would fall over.

"Sherlock, you really should sleep."

"Sleep? sleep is boring," his friend muttered absently. He went to the book shelves and started flinging papers and old scraps of half-written cases around the room.

Thinking that his flatmate truly had gone mad, John crossed the room to his friend and grabbed his arms, forcing him to turn around. "Sherlock, you're making me nervous!"

the detective gave him an infuriating, wicked smile. "Good." He said, and spun on his heel, half-running out of their flat, grabbing his coat on the way, leaving a bewildered John staring after him.

Sometimes, there were days when Sherlock Holmes frightened him.

* * *

><p>"Tea?" Sherlock asked, dropping the smallest amount of sedative into his friend's beverage and stirring it absently with a spoon before John could notice.<p>

"sure, thanks." John took the cup, and Sherlock noticed his left hand was trembling slightly. another night of war nightmares, perhaps? good. that would only aid Sherlock's hypothesis.

John took a sip of the tea. "So, why do you think about that women?"

Sherlock pretended to be flipping through the paper while he observed even the slightest twitch in his friend's expression, waiting for the drug to take effect. "Oh, I think she's delusional. Post Dramatic Stress, and all of the..." He grinned as John shot him a glare.

"I'm not delusional-" the last word slurred as his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped against the chair. The teacup fell to the floor and shattered.

Sherlock sprang to his feet and hurried over to his friend, lifting his eyelids to ensure that John was truly asleep. "As always, my dear Watson," He murmured. "You do not observe." sliding his arms under his friend, he half-dragged, half carried him to the couch, and pulled out his experiment. "Sorry, John." He said softly as he filled the needle with the drug found at the crime scene. He had researched it before hand-it would not kill his friend, only bring forth his worst memories. He really did feel uncomfortable doing it, but it was the only way to test his theory. "It's an experiment."

And then he sat by his friend while he slept, and waited to see if he was wrong. He doubted he was.

He only regretted that he had to test his experiment on his only friend. John would forgive him though, he always did.


	10. Chapter 10

__**Thank you PurplePurplePurple for the prompt: John's a lady's man, and ElvishRangerApprentice, for the prompt, a day in the life of John and Sherlock through texts. I chose John's POV for the text, and Sherlock's for the other prompt. I hope I did them justice  
><strong>

_John?_

_~SH_

_Sherlock?_

_~JW_

_I'm bored. _

_~SH_

_God help me._

_~JW_

_I NEED CASE, JOHN!_

_~SH_

_maybe someone will call..._

_~JW_

_Not likely. _

_~SH_

_John?_

_~MH(mycroft holmes)_

_What, mycroft?_

_~JW_

_Just checking on on my darling little brother..._

_~MH_

_Mycroft is texting you isn't he!_

_~SH_

_(to Myrcroft)He's bored._

_~JW_

_Is it a danger night?_

_~MH_

_If he asks if it's a danger night, tell him to back off John! I'm not a child! _

_~SH_

_(To mycroft) I don't think so._

_~JW_

_Good. thank you_

_~MH_

_John!_

_~SH_

_What, Sherlock?_

_~JW_

_I think we have a client! come home!_

_~JW_

_I'm at work. i can't._

_~JW_

_never mind. it was boring._

_~SH_

_It's been less than 30 seconds since you last texted saying we had a client, and you already turned them away?_

_~JW_

_It was a sniffling old women who obviously knew who stole her purse. Boring. _

_~SH_

_sorry, then._

_~JW_

_John?_

_~SH_

_What?_

_~JW_

_I think we need a new wall..._

_~SH_

* * *

><p>John was getting ready for another date. Sherlock watched with interest as his friend scurried and ran around the room, muttering to himself. Sherlock didn't really understand why John was so worked up. He had been on hundreds of dates-this one shouldn't have been so important. But then again, Sherlock did not really understand emotion. He had lost count of John's number of girlfriends months ago. Now he only regarded each new one with disgust, because she was obviously not the women John was looking for or needed. Not that Sherlock would truly know anyway, but still. John was his best friend, and Sherlock wanted to be sure he was happy.<p>

Now, observing his friend, he could see that John was nervous about this one. His right hand was trembling slightly, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. His shirt was slightly creased in the shoulders, with a faint stain-failed ironing attempt? And John's constant mutterings were enough for anyone to notice that something was bothering him.

"What's her name?" Sherlock asked, making a mental note to remember it, store it in his mind with the other girlfriend's names, and then delete it as soon as possible.

"Oh, what?" John was buttoning his coat, and clearly not paying attention.

"Her name. What is it?"

"Oh," John said, turning out the door. "Mary."

Sherlock nodded. Just another girl to add to John's list. Something, he could not quite place what though, told him that maybe "Mary" would be here to stay.

**Reviews and prompts help me update faster, just saying. :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you,SketchbookPianist for the prompt: Shock. ****please let me know what you think of this chapter, and sending me prompts :)**

**review, pretty please?**

The sight of Sherlock would have made most people gasp and call an ambulance, but it made John laugh.

His friend was completely soaked from head to foot, his dark hair dripping in his eyes, water streaming off him like he was a thunder cloud releasing rain on the earth. Blood caked the side of his face and stained his shoulder. And he was shaking, his eyes wide and wild.

"What happened?" John asked as ambulance sirens sounded all around them. It looked like Sherlock was in shock, and this made the situation a bit more comical. His friend was suffering no life-threatening injuries, and the relief that Sherlock was going to be all right after a little rest was making John feel slightly giddy.

Sherlock did not reply. His breath was coming faster now, in quick little pants, and his eyes were moving rapidly, taking in information, his lips, which were dripping rain water, or was it tears? whispering soundlessly.

A paramedic gently maneuvered the detective into a chair and draped a blanket over his shoulders, speaking soothingly. "You're going to me okay Sherlock...can you take a deep breath for me?"

Sherlock did not respond to doctor. He was lost in his thoughts, his bodies needs pushed aside as he focused on the case. John leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms, fighting a smile as he waited for Sherlock's response to the doctor's words.

Lestrade stepped up behind him. "He's alright?"

"Yeah," John said quietly, not taking his eyes off his friend. "He will be in a few hours."

"Bloody idiot," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "Sometimes I think he is a little to obsessed with his work. He didn't need to get in a fight and attempt to recreate the murder scene by almost drowning himself."

The paramedic was still murmuring soothing words to Sherlock, but now Sherlock was coming back to reality. He blinked twice, shook his head, and started violently when the doctor touched his shoulder.

"Sherlock, I need you to try and relax, it's going to be all right, you're in shock-"

"Oh shut up," The detective snapped, spinning around to wave the paramedic off."I'm perfectly fine."

"Sherlock-"

"And what is this?" He flipped the blanket off his shoulders and looked at it with something close to disgust. "Oh for God's sake! A shock blanket?" He threw the blanket into the paramedics arms and stood, lifting his chin and brushing his hands on his soaking wet pants. "Thank you for your time," He said to the stunned doctor, and as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, he walked over to John and Lestrade. "John, we have to go to Saint Barts. I need to research algae samples."

"Sherlock, look at yourself!" Lestrade insisted. "You're soaked through, and your head is bleeding. the only way you are going to Saint Bart's is in the back of an ambulance."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not in shock, detective inspector. I'm just a little wet."

"And bloody!"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Come on, John, we're leaving."

John glanced a bit helplessly at Lestrade. "What should I..."

"Just give him the bloody blanket, it's the only thing you can do."

John went over to the ambulance and requested the blanket.

Sherlock was waiting for him at the edge of the road, hands in his pockets. "Really, John, I am not going to wear that ridiculous thing."

'Sherlock-"

"Oh fine," the dective snatched the blanket away before John even had time to say anything, and draped it over his shoulders, pulling it tightly around him. "Happy, _doctor _Watson?" The sarcasm was heavy in his voice.

"Very," John replied, and started as his phone buzzed in his hand, signaling a text.

He smirked. "I should warn you...Lestrade took a photo on his phone."

Sherlock snorted in disgust and threw the blanket back at John. Flipping the collar of his soaking jacket about about his face, he stalked away. "Come on John."

Laughing, John ran to catch up with his friend.

Life with Sherlock Holmes was never dull.

* * *

><p>Sherlock did not understand why his Mind Palace was different.<p>

It had always been an elaborate place-full of beautiful rooms and special places where he stored information. Now, though, when he entered it, it was dark and confusing. Pressing his finger tips to his temples, Sherlock sighed in frustration. His Mind Palace was falling apart, crumpling to pieces, rooms falling dark and silent, useless facts and information bombarding him whenever he tried to slip back into the black rooms. This had never happened before, ever. Half closing his eyes, Sherlock wished for what was probably the millionth time that John was here. Whenever Sherlock went into his Mind Palace, John had always been there to pull him out, or one step into John's room could bring back memories, possibilities, hopes, wishes...

But he couldn't go back to John. If he did, it would seem like murder, because Moriarty's men would be there, a gun to his friend's head, and then Sherlock would be standing on the roof all over again, and it would be painful and pointless for both of them. But still...

He slipped back into the his Mind Palace, ghosting silently from room to room, searching for information, for memories, _anything. _But more and more rooms were dimming, becoming dark, only shadowed whispers of memories inside of them.

Letting out a shout of frustration, Sherlock tore at his hair. This couldn't be happening...it shouldn't be happening. Why...?

He stepped into John's room.

It had always been brightly lit, the center of his emotion...because John was one of the few people he had ever cared about. Now, that bright glow was still there, but the room itself was decaying. There were hallways that led from John's room, to all the other room's in his palace, and these too, were disagreeing. Sherlock stared at the room, as memories, things he thought he had deleted, came pouring back.

_"You really don't know the earth goes around the sun?"_

_ "I'm only concerned for you..."_

_ "Caring is not an advantage, Sherly."_

With a gasp, Sherlock wrenched himself out of his Mind Palace and back into the present. He shook his head twice, as if this would help clear it, and took several deep breaths, fighting to contain his wild emotions. To his shock, he felt tears begin to slide down his face. He buried his head in his hands and willed himself to stop crying, to move on, but the tears continued to stream, unheeded down his face.

Without John, Without the one person who had brought out the human in him, reminded him that he could _feel, _that he could _care, _his Mind Palace was falling apart.

And so was he.


	12. Chapter 12

**thank you to ElvishRangerApprentice, for the prompt: Sherlock on a case before john, with lestrade, anderson and donovan, and Zacha, for the prompt: Sherlock, John, Irene Adler, and a banana **

It was hard, being among a group of people who were just so _blind. _

Sherlock appreciated what the people of Scotland Yard were trying to do, he just didn't understand why they even bothered to call him in if they were going to pretend they knew that they were talking about. Donovan had never, and would never trust him, and her annoying attitude only got in the way of his work. Anderson was a complete idiot. Only Lestrade attempted to see what Sherlock observed, but even the detective inspector missed the obvious.

Sighing, Sherlock ran a hand through his curly hair and stood, pausing only to run his eyes once more over the prone body on the ground in front of him, before he gave Lestrade the information he had been looking for. "She's 45, killed by a poisonous dart to the back of the neck...the poison is something I've never seen before, but judging by the water stains under the collar-"

"The what?" Anderson interrupted immiedatly.

Sherlock resisted the urge to take the other man and shake him. Anderson had already pushed Sherlock to the limit of his patience today. Gritting his teeth, he said. "The water stains on her collar indicate that it was up, it was raining, so how could the dart have pierced through the cloth? now, judging by the state of her chipped cell phone, I'd say she is single, alone, she throws the phone down in frustration because her ex never calls her back, therefore-"

"you're just making this up!" Donovan threw her hands up in frustration.

Knowing his thin patience would snap if he remained, Sherlock inclined his head towards her, unable to keep the slight trace of mockery out of his words when he said, "Since you seem so capable of discovering how this women was killed, Donovan, I will leave you to it. Lestrade, text me tomorrow if you need me. You know where to find me." Before any of them could respond, he turned on his heel and walked out the door.

Pressing his palms against his eyes, Sherlock groaned again, this time in frustration. He needed the people at Scotland Yard for work, without them he would not have half the cases he did, and then he was sure to snap from the boredom...but still, sometimes, he wanted someone who could understand him. Someone who would listen and not interrupt. Or if they were going to interrupt, at least ask him an intelligent question.

But that was never going to happen. He had learned to accept when he was a child that he was alone in the world, that the only one who had any hope of understanding him was his brother, and Mycroft was not here to help him now.

He was going to have to do this on his own.

* * *

><p>"That is not a weapon."<p>

John looked up from his computer to see Sherlock and Irene in an intense discussion. Sherlock was gesturing adamantly with his hands, his body inclined towards the women, his eyes bright and focused as they only were when he was speaking with her or working on a case. Irene had her eyebrows raised and her arms crossed, but her mouth was twitching, as if she were going to smile.

"You cannot possibly kill someone with that," She said after Sherlock had at last fallen silent.

The detective rolled his eyes. "A weapon does not have to kill someone. It only has to defend the person who carries it. This does. This is a weapon."

"A banana?" Her voice rose on the last word, incredulous.

Sherlock waved the piece of fruit in her face, snapping it quickly through the air so the sound was audible. "of course."

John smiled. He had no idea where the discussion was going, but Sherlock had the odd look about him he normally got when he was going to have a rare moment of sarcasm-free humor. Whatever his friend had planned, Irene was the culprit.

"How is a banana a weapon, Mr. Holmes?" She said, using his full name as if it would disarm him.

That playful, childish grin spread across his face. "No one in your school ever played with a banana gun, Ms. Adler?"

Irene, realizing the danger, ducked, but not before a glob of wet banana struck her in the face. She made a sound like an angry cat, and Sherlock wisely chose to apologize.

Grinning, John deleted the blog entry he had just been about to post, and started a new one: _Sherlock, The Women, and a banana-just an average day at 221B _


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you, ElvishRangerApprentice, for the prompts: Moriarty thinks about Sherlock after the events of "The Great Game" and, Sherlock gives a tour of his mind palace. **

**Please keep sending me prompts, and let me know what you think of this chapter with a review!  
><strong>

He liked Sherlock Holmes.

He wasn't..._boring. _

Moriarty had always been searching for someone like him, someone who could understand how he saw people, someone who understood what he _wanted_. He wanted to be excited, he wanted to be adored, he wanted to be chased, he wanted life to be exciting. He wanted something, _anything_ to happen.

Sherlock understood.

He saw that right away. The man could look at him and read him like a book, but Moriarty could open the detective up and read him right back. Sherlock was intense and energized and so incredibly _alive. _

Just like him.

And John Watson...Moriarty had called him Sherlock's pet, because the man was so _ordinary. _so _dull. _And yet, there was something about him...something that Moriarty liked too. Maybe his loyalty, his patience with Sherlock, the man with the mind of a rocket scientist and young child.

Maybe that was why he let them go that day in the pool. He sensed that these two, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, might make life fun for a little while.

And he would enjoy playing with them.

* * *

><p>Come in John. You are the only person, other than my brother, to ever see this place.<p>

There are so many rooms, so many secrets, so much information, you could drown in it, John. And it all moves so fast, flashing and flickering and humming. Your door is down there John. Do you want to look inside? See what I see? How I see you?

Oh, don't be scared. It's a wonderful room-full of light and laughter. Because you make me laugh, John. Don't go in the dark rooms-there are secrets there you must never see. They are full of screams and punches and pain. They are nightmares. They are a syringe full of drugs and powder. They are the fire at the end of a cigarette. I don't delete these rooms-I need them. But you must never go in them. They would destroy you.

Over there is Mrs. Hudson's room. It's warm and comforting, I go there when the dark rooms open there doors and pour all those nightmares at me.

Do you hear that violin music? it's coming from Mycroft's room. Did I ever tell you he taught me how to play it? We didn't always fight, John. At one time, he was the only person who understood me. My only friend. Well, more father than friend.

Go on, John, I know you want to see your room. You can't hide it from me. You can't hide anything from me.

See? Do you see how bright it is? it's like sunlight. It's laughter and joy. Are you crying John? Don't. This isn't a place to be sad. This is the only room that is happy in this place. But you are happy...aren't you? I'll never understand you're emotions, John. Yes, I know. You never thought I had this place...this happy place. This place of laughter and sunshine and playgrounds...

Welcome to my Mind Palace, John.

Welcome to _me. _


	14. Chapter 14

**Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall. **

**Please leave your thoughts and maybe a prompt or two in a review :)  
><strong>

John wakes up screaming.

It takes him a moment to catch himself, to swallow back another cry and slow his breathing to it's normal rate. His heart is still pounding unnaturally fast, and he puts his head in his hands, clenching his fingers in his hair.

He doesn't hear the soft, soothing sound of violin music that he's come to expect after a nightmare. The small comfort he's learned to listen for. He only hears silence.

It's unbearable.

Throwing back the covers, he limps from his bed and shuffles across their(no, his) flat and collapses in a chair.

Sherlock is everywhere. In the messy state of the kitchen, in the faint smell of something burning in the oven, in the skull on the mantlepiece...

Sighing, John runs his hand across his face and bites his lip, hard. He would _not _cry.

His eyes find Sherlock's violin, lying where Sherlock had carefully placed it on the table beside the couch. Slowly, almost hesitantly, John reaches for it.

His shaking fingers slide across the smooth, cool wood. Gently he runs his hands over the resin-coated strings, electing a soft squeak. He sense the calmer, gentler side of Sherlock here.

And then, before he can stop them, the tears start to fall.

"You, bloody idiot, Sherlock," He whispers to the silence, "Why did you have to leave?"

Naturally, there is no answer, save for another gentle twang from the violin.

* * *

><p>Sherlock wakes up crying.<p>

For a moment he is to stunned to even realize _why _he is so upset. He never cries. Ever. He pushes all emotion aside and focuses on things that are real and matter. Science and math and...

But he's _crying. _

He takes a deep breath and wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve, finding comfort in the rough sting of the fabric against the sensitive skin of his face. Closing his eyes, he forces the tears to stop falling and leans his head back against the pillow.

It is quiet, save for the sound of his brother, moving around the flat that they share now. Mycroft has been particularly annoying, not allowing him to leave. Apparently he's still too injured, and not thinking clearly enough to go after the rest of Moriarty's network of spies and assassins.

But Sherlock's not even that bored. He's just..,just...

Sad? Was that the right word?

He wanted John. He wanted his friend. His _only _friend. The one who listened to his wild ravings, the violin music, the frustration and anger and excitement. The one who had simply excepted him for who he was. The one who hadn't tried to change him.

But he could never see John again. Not now.

He's crying again. Hot liquid slipping down his cheeks, stinging against his lips. He wipes his eyes again and tries to preserve an ounce of dignity, but what does it matter? There's no one hear to disturb him but his brother, and Mycroft is pretending not to hear him.

So Sherlock wraps his arms around himself, rests his head on his knees, and for the first time since he was a small child, he cries himself to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**thank to: Kendra and Zacha for the prompts: Sherlock's finger stuck in some kind of experiment, phone just outside of Sherlock's reach as he tries to call John for help. John's reaction to the situation and what happens to John with the drug Sherlock gave him and how Sherlock feels about it while it's happening**

Sherlock disliked being wrong.

He _hated _it, hated that feeling that would rise up in the pit of his stomach, an ache, that said, _you should have known better, Sherlock._

He felt that now, with his finger jammed firmly inside a test tube, his phone tossed carelessly out of reach, and the smoke alarm blaring in his ears.

"John!" He shouted at the top of his voice, because he really didn't know what else to do, "John, help!"

Of course, he didn't come. John was probably out, although Sherlock hadn't noticed him leave. He had been to engrossed in the experiment. Stupid.

His finger was actually starting to ache now, and the constant blare of the alarm was giving him a headache. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to remain calm. He couldn't reach the phone, couldn't scream for help(it would make him feel horribly mundane and even more miserable) he could only wait. Wait for the fire trucks to come or for John to come home.

Groaning, he flexed his knees until he was comfortable and prepared himself for a long wait.

He was just closing his eyes as John came bursting into the house, out of breath and flustered. "Sherlock what the hell-"

The detective just grimaced. "Shut up and get me out of here before I kill something."

"What happened?" John asked, completely bewildered.

Sherlock sighed loudly. "I was wrong," was all he said.

He didn't need to say more; John understood. The doctor shut his mouth, and set to work getting his best friend's finger out of a test tube as the sirens of police cars and firetrucks echoed below them in response to a blaring smoke alarm at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

><p>Sherlock really didn't want to do this.<p>

If only it could be someone else, anyone else but John. He could have called Lestrade in to help him, but it would not be logical. The detective inspector wasn't used to helping Sherlock and not asking annoying questions, and besides, Sherlock didn't know Lestrade like he knew John.

Still, he felt a stab of guilt when his phone rang, and he heard John's frantic voice.

Half closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair and said, "I'll get you out, I promise, just tell me what you can see."

And he hoped John could hear the sincerity in his voice, because he really meant what he said-he would get John out, get him away from the fear and the "monster" even if it was Sherlock creating that fear.

John deserved that.


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you to: jayjayvee for the prompts: John comforts Sherlock when he has a nightmare, and the first time John see's Sherlock cry**

When he wakes, panting from another one of his nightmares, he doesn't hear the soft, soothing sound of violin music. He doesn't hear Sherlock fumbling about with experiments, or even him moving around their flat.

More curious than anything else, John steps out of bed and wanders to the living room, where he's always seen Sherlock at night before. He's never even seen his friend asleep before.

The sound reaches him before he's taken three steps.

A soft, pained moan comes from the couch, and John is half running towards the sound before he even stops to think.

"Sherlock?"

The detective is curled in the fetal position on the couch, his dark hair ruffled and damp with sweat, his eyes wandering sightlessly under his eyelids. He is breathing hard, soft, quick cries slipping past his lip every other gasp.

"Sherlock?" John lightly shook his friend's shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up!"

Sherlock is trembling under John's hands, and his frantic gasps have grown louder, harsher.

Knowing he will regret his actions, but not seeing any other alternative, John slaps Sherlock across the face, making the blow as gentle as possible.

His friend lets out an actual cry and flips upright, eyes wide and frantic, still trembling, his hand flying out to seize John's wrist so fast that the doctor doesn't even see the movement.

"Sherlock, it's me," John says quietly, softly, reaching up to grip the hand that had a firm hold of his wrist, "It's John. You were dreaming." He makes his voice soothing, gentle, as if he is speaking to a young child.

The detective lets out a long breath, shakily, and blinks a few times. For an instant John thinks he sees the glint of tears in his friend's eyes before they vanish behind his eyelids.

"Oh God..." The two words are so quiet that John barely catches them. "God..."

Before his friend can do anything other than shake his head, John maneuvers him back down to the couch, still gripping Sherlock's hand, and sits down beside him. "Try and take some deep breaths," He says, softly, like he would to anyone who wakes from a nightmare-God knows he's comforted too many young soldiers on the battle field-gently, he pries Sherlock's fingers off his arm and twines their fingers together before his friend could do anything destructive.

Sherlock closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, becoming like a statue beside John, and John knew that his friend had retreated to his "Mind Palace" as he called it.

He lets Sherlock sit in silence for a few minutes, before squeezing his friend's fingers, gently.

Sherlock lets out his breath in a shuddering gasp and his eyes flash open, flicking quickly to John's face. He stares at him for a few seconds, and twitches his wrist. "Let go of me," He says, harshly, but their is a roughness to his voice that tells John he is struggling to hide his emotion. John releases his grip without a word.

He sits in silence and waits for Sherlock to collect himself, but after a few minutes his friend is still shaking.

"Sherlock," John is hesitant to ask anything to personal, but his friends condition is really starting to worry him, "What did you, um..."

"I'm fine," The detective snaps, and half turns so he is facing away from John. "I'm fine."

Shaking his head, John reaches out, tentatively putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. Sherlock does not shake it off.

"You're not fine," John says, quietly. "I'm your friend-tell me what's wrong."

"It was just a dream," Sherlock's voice is hollow, flat and empty. "Memory."

"A memory of what?" John tightens his grip on his friend's shoulder, almost without realizing it.

"I-" Sherlock shakes his head. "I can't-"

"Okay," John says, realizing that his friend is not in any kind of emotional state to tell him anything. "You don't have to tell me. Do you want me to-" He stands, backing away, quickly.

Sherlock's hand snags his wrist, his finger's tightening in an unbreakable grip. "Stay," He says, almost sharply, and then more quietly: "Please."

"All right," John sits back down on the couch and stretches out his legs. "I'll stay."

Sherlock shudders, and moves closer to him, pulling his knees up to his chest, rocking back and forth like a child. "John," He whispers.

"Yes?" John whispers back, quietly, without looking at him.

"I'm afraid."

Turning his head, John sees that Sherlock is leaning back, his eyes closed, thin face half hidden in shadow. And in the faint stream of moonlight coming in from the window, John thinks he sees the gleam of a tear on his friend's cheek.

"So am I," John murmurs, and clears his throat. "So am I."

* * *

><p>Emotion is a strange thing.<p>

Sherlock has always been wary of it. Emotions get in the way of _thinking_, and he can't afford to not have a clear head. Mycroft had pounded it into his head over and over: _Caring is not an advantage, Sherly._

But how can he _not _care?

He's seen the heart break and pain he's caused his best friend, and emotions surface and tear at him until he is forced to retreat to his mind palace, until he hides within himself to escape the pain.

Even now, that John's forgiven him(he thinks...) He sits out late that night, violin in his hands, and he can't bring himself to play it.

His body is betraying him-fear and sadness and anger and love are at war inside him-and he doesn't know what to do. He's shaking, trembling, breaths coming in frantic gasps. His eyes are burning.

"Sherlock?" It's John, kneeling in front of him. "Sherlock, you okay?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not okay," He whispers, remembering how he had said the same thing to Molly Hooper before the fall, that act that changed all their lives.

He reaches up and feels his cheek. His fingers come away wet.

'Sherlock?" John asks, more urgently this time.

"John," Sherlock whispers, and his voice doesn't sound like his own-it's choked and broken. He blinks his burning eyes, and feels more liquid sting against his cheeks. He's never cried in front of John before, he's never cried in front of anyone except his brother before, and that was a long time ago. "John, I'm _crying."_

John's arms come around him, and Sherlock tenses automatically.

"Shh," John whispers. "It's okay to cry sometimes, you know."

Sherlock sniffs, and presses his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the tears. "I don't understand-"

John's grip on him tightens. "You're an idiot."

Sherlock can't help but laugh. He leans his head back against his friend's arm, and waits until the tears stop streaming down his cheeks.


	17. Chapter 17

**Thank you to jayjayvee for the prompts: Deepest fears, and Darkest Secrets**

The first thing he registered was white.

Brilliant light stabbed at his eyes, forcing them to close.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

"John."

It took him a moment to register the voice. he allowed his eyes to open a fraction of an inch. "Mycroft? what..."

The elder Holmes leaned towards him, his face still blurred to John's vision. "Stay calm, John. You're in a hospital."

The doctor groaned, and allowed his eyes to slip closed again. "What happened?"

"You were shot," Mycroft said, and John noticed he kept his voice to a low whisper. "Twice. You've been out for days."

Now that they were talking, pain was coming back to him in slow waves. Each breath sent fire racing across his chest. He clenched his hands into fists, and gritted his teeth.

"Should I call for the nurse?"

"No," John hissed, the word coming out sharp and fast through his clenched teeth, "no, I'm fine, thank you."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Between you and Sherlock-"

New pain seized John's chest at the mention of his friend's name. "Was he-"

"He was not injured. He's fine." Mycroft soothed, voice uncharacteristically gentle. He ran a hand across his close-cropped hair, motioning with his chin to a chair beside John's bed.

Half-turning his head, John saw that the detective was curled up, encased in a blanket, his eyes closed while he slept. He looked peaceful-sleep made him look years younger, like an overgrown boy.

"I had to sedate him before he killed himself," Mycroft said wearily. "He hadn't slept in a week, and had started refusing food. He'll be fine when he wakes and sees your alright."

John shook his head. Sherlock self-destructive habits were starting to really worry him. "Bloody idiot."

"He worries about you," Mycroft said, a little sharply. "He-he's never really had a friend before, John. Not like this. His deepest fear came true a few days ago, and its effects ran deeper than you can imagine."

"What's his deepest fear?" John asked, genuinely curious, although he had to admit, he couldn't picture Sherlock being worried about anything other than the amount of nitrogen in the universe.

Mycroft gave him a level stare. "His greatest fear is losing you, John Watson."

* * *

><p>Sherlock had secrets, secrets he would never share with John. They would destroy him.<p>

The doctor was too kind, too forgiving, to see the full depth and horror of Sherlock's past. He wouldn't understand how the memories, carefully locked away in Sherlock's mind palace, would make anyone cower or cry. He doesn't know the real reason why Sherlock is so awkward around people, why he never had any friends. Why he despises Mycroft.

John didn't need to know those things.

They were Sherlock's darkest secrets.

And some secrets are meant to stay hidden.


	18. Chapter 18

**Thank you to jayjayvee for the prompts: Cold, and Worst Memories **

"John," the voice whispered in the dark. "I'm cold."

The doctor rolled his eyes. Sherlock's voice sounded uncannily like a sulking four year old's, and he really did not have the patience for his friend's childish behavior at the moment. "Maybe," He said, deliberately layering his voice with a thick amount of sarcasm, "that's because you decided that we needed to jump in a river."

"It was part of the case." There was a rustle that sounded like Sherlock had attempted to squeeze more water out of his soaking shirt.

"You were just being childish." John said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and not making a move to help his friend as Sherlock fumbled around his bedroom, stumbling into walls and struggling to disentangle himself from his wet clothes. "And you payed the price."

Sherlock scoffed, but otherwise chose not to reply. He ran a hand through his soaking hair and turned to face John with eyes that seemed unnaturally bright in his pale face. "I didn't think the river would take us downstream for a few miles and we would have to _walk _home."

"Of course you didn't," John said, sliding down into a chair.

His friend arched an eyebrow. "Are you doubting me?"

"I'm doubting your sanity," The doctor replied. "You're going to kill yourself investigating one of these cases someday..."

"That's why i have you," Sherlock said in his usual brusk manner. "to keep me alive."

But his words held deeper meaning, and John sensed it. In an odd, detached Sherlock-way, the detective was openly acknowledging their friendship, and those instances were so rare and so precious that John just replied with a smile.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, Sherlock loses himself in his memories.<p>

It happens unexpectedly-one instant his mind will be racing, working, humming as it always does, and then it will stop. Come to a complete halt until he's left with nothing but a blank page, and the memories pour out of the darkest room in his Mind Palace. snatches of screams, the sound of flesh striking flesh, of his brother's gentle hand rubbing circles against his back while they listen to their parents fighting in the dark, of the sting of a needle against his arm, the tang of smoke, children who mocked him, hit him, called him-

"Hey there freak."

They called him freak.

And even if Donovan doesn't know it, her use of the word makes him tense, makes him feel a swell of helpless anger so strong that it seems to burn him.

No one notices. John, he thinks, sees it sometimes, but no one but Mycroft has ever really seen why that name bothers him so much, and he's not about to tell John his secrets.

It's better to keep his worst memories locked away in his Mind Palace, where no one will ever find them.


	19. Chapter 19

**Thank you to Alex Leep for the prompts: What matters most, and Endings **

**Keep sending me prompts :) leave your thoughts in a review pretty please!  
><strong>

Mycroft had never seen his brother cry like this.

When Sherlock had been younger, he had tantrums-screaming, biting, snarling tantrums-but he had never _cried. _Not great, heaving sobs like his brother was doing now, not curling in on himself, head pillowed against his hand.

Mycroft was forced to admit he really wasn't sure what to do. He understood emotion no better than his brother, and a problem like a sobbing Sherlock was not one he was faced with often.

Hesitantly, he moved so he was close enough to touch the detective. Years of experience told him not to reach out to his brother yet-Sherlock was easily upset enough to strike out at him-but he pressed against the younger man's side and said, softly. "Sherlock."

"Leave. Me. Alone." Each word was a snarl. Ice-cold eyes glared at him from under a mess of dark hair, red and bright with tears.

"You did the right thing. You will see your friends again, someday."

"They will hate me," His brother hissed, viciously, tightening his hands into fists. "Especially John. He's so sentimental, so emotional, he will loathe me for this."

"John is your friend."

"Friends do not lie to each other. Friends do not jump off of buildings and fake their own suicide."

Mycroft sighed. "He will understand."

Sherlock did not bother replying. He had dropped his head back into his hands and was whispering quietly to himself, rocking back and forth like a child. His shoulders were shaking.

Slowly, as though not to startle his brother, Mycroft reached out and wrapped an arm around the detective.

Sherlock tensed, and then relaxed. Just as slowly as Mycroft had reached out to him, the detective rested his head against his brother's shoulder, leaning into the embrace.

Mycroft didn't think they had held each other like this since they had been children. It was stiff and awkward and uncomfortable, but their was also something natural about it, something soothing and familiar about his little brother's heat against his side, about the softness of Sherlock's curls against his cheek, of the tears that were staining his jacket.

And that was what mattered the most.

* * *

><p>John knew the instant he met Sherlock Holmes that something was changing in his life. At the time he had not know what, but he felt it-an odd shift as he agreed to be flatmates with a total stranger, a sense of calm acceptance as Sherlock showed him around the flat.<p>

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said now, leaning against the door. "in fact you're an army doctor."

"Yes," John said, not completely sure where this was going.

"Any good?" There was almost a mocking tone to the other man's voice, and it set John's teeth on edge.

"Very good." He said, shortly.

"Seen a lot of injures then?" Sherlock was toying with his gloves. "Injuries...violent deaths?"

"yes."

"Bit of trouble too I bet." The detective was almost smirking now, but his voice retained it's calm, almost bored tone.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime-far to much."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and moved closer to him. There was almost a nervous energy to him now, an agitation that was infectious. "Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God yes."

Those three words were the end of John Watson. The end of the limping, depressed army doctor, and the beginning of the man who ran for miles chasing criminals across London, who was the only person who could keep Sherlock relatively sane, the doctor who helped the famous detective. The writer of his famous blog.

Sometimes, endings were really just the start of something amazing.


	20. Chapter 20

**Thank you to hjohn302 for the prompts: the first time Sherlock sees John cry, and John tells an army story**

**I love prompts! and reviews! :) Keep them coming! (some happy, silly prompts would be nice too)  
><strong>

Sherlock had never been able to deal with emotion.

Especially not John's. But coming around the corner from the kitchen, waving his hands to clear the smoke from the latest explosion, he was greeted with John Watson crying.

The doctor was sitting in his favorite armchair, quickly blotting at his eyes in an attempt to stench the tears, but Sherlock, who noticed everything, saw his friend's hand trembling. Another nightmare of the war perhaps?

He knew that John knew that he was there, and that his friend was just ignoring him. Part of him said that he should respect that and simply walk by and leave John alone, but the better, sentimental part of him, told him to stay, to comfort.

Comfort? How was _he _comforting? Even when he was trying to be sentimental, John often scolded him for how callous he was being. How could he comfort John?

Slowly, hesitantly, he took a few steps closer to John and stopped.

The doctor raised his head, slowly, and when his eyes met Sherlock's they were dry. His soldier face was in place-the calm, serene expression that would have fooled anyone but Sherlock Holmes. "I'm fine, Sherlock."

"Shut up," Sherlock said, reaching down for his violin. "Of course you're not."

Just before Sherlock closed his eyes and began to play, he saw the corners of John's lip quirk up, into a smile.

* * *

><p>John did not like discussing what had happened to him in Afghanistan-It was part of the reason meeting with his therapist had been such a disaster-but now, here he was.<p>

Lestrade sat to his left, at least attempting to look somewhat sympathetic, although John could see that he was beginning to feel exasperated. Sherlock was across from him, and making now attempt to hide his boredom. His fingers were drumming restlessly against the arm of his chair, and his light colored eyes were fixed stubbornly on the wall.

John leaned back in his chair, sighing. "This is really not helping, maybe we should-"

"Do you remember," Sherlock said very suddenly, twisting around in the chair to look at him, resting his chin on the heel of his hand, "When we first met?"

John blinked. "Yeah, of course I-"

Sherlock was gazing at him with almost frightening intensity. "What did I say?"

"I-"

Sherlock inhaled, sharply, and John was forcibly reminded of the case with Henry, and Baskerville, "What did I say to you?"

"You-you said...Afghanistan or Iraq."

Sherlock nodded. "You were going to tell us an army story. Why don't you tell us _why _you joined."

John looked to Lestrade. The older man shrugged, and motioned with his chin. "Go on, then."

John looked at Sherlock. The detective stared right back, eyes narrowed, chin on his hands, but there was something relaxed about his expression, something comforting.

So John took a deep breath and began to talk.


	21. Chapter 21

**My terrible attempt at some light, fluffy humor...how did I do?**

**Thank you to Alex Leep for the prompts: Chess, and Lost in the woods  
><strong>

**More prompts and reviews pretty please?  
><strong>

John Watson had always enjoyed chess.

So when Sherlock asked him to play one night, he was eager to accept. No doubt Sherlock would beat him, but he had missed the game, and one lighthearted match between two best friends would make for an enjoyable evening.

If only.

Sherlock's wide, calculating eyes were fixed on him the entire time, with such ferocity that John felt like he was being attacked. "You're doing "the look" again," He said, keeping own eyes firmly fixed on the chess board.

Sherlock made an impatient noise. "oh, not that again..."

"Just shut up. Play the game, Sherlock. Just play chess. Stop trying to get my life story-you know most of it anyway."

The detective shook his head, slowly. "no...there's one thing I haven't figured out yet."

"Oh?" John was actually surprised. "Really?"

"mmh." Sherlock nodded, leaning forward so his chin was resting on one hand.

"And what's that?"

His friend smirked. "How you manage to be so good at chess."

* * *

><p>"This is your fault, Sherlock."<p>

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I do not think so."

"We're lost, Sherlock, _lost! _In the woods. Alone. Without help."

"Well, there's always mycroft." Sherlock did his best to make his words light, but in reality he really was starting to worry. He knew how to find his way out of a forest-he wasn't an idiot-but it was dark and cold, and he could barely see.

Having John around was not helping matters.

"I told you we shouldn't have taken this case Sherlock. Now we're going to die. In the woods. Alone."

"Oh don't be stupid," Sherlock scoffed. "We aren't going to die."

"Well, do _you _have any idea where you're going? Because I-"

"Stop talking." Holding up a hand, Sherlock turned slowly on the spot, tilting his head up, widening his eyes. "Shh...I have a plan."

"Oh, really?" John crossed his arms over his chest. "Enlighten me."

Sherlock grinned. "Come on, Dr. Watson. _Think."_

"that's your department-the deductions and brilliance and-"

"Think, John. Come on..."

"Just tell me!" His friend exploded, furious, and Sherlock saw that John was not enjoying his little game. He forced himself to relax, made his voice soft, calm.

"Here's the plan." Pivoting to the left, Sherlock cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, "MYCROFT!" He turned to John with a grin. "Help is on the way."

"You are completely mad." The army doctor hissed. "Mental."

Sherlock laughed and leaned his head back against a tree trunk. "Please, John. Mycroft is the most over-protective person on the planet. Do you really think it would take him hours to figure out where I am?"

The harsh light of a helicopter above them confirmed his words. He shot John a smug look and grabbed his arm. "Come on."

"I hate you sometimes," John growled. "You know that?"

the detective smirked. "Just get in the helicopter."


	22. Chapter 22

**This isn't for a prompt...but this idea came into my head and I had to write it down. let me know what you think :)**

**and I will write more stuff from prompts, I promise!  
><strong>

**Leave a review and a prompt maybe? thanks guys!  
><strong>

It is late at night when Sherlock reaches for his violin.

Or early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it-the detective preferred to think it was still night-nighttime was when he had the most energizing thoughts.

Carefully, almost reverently, he set the violin on his shoulder, raised the bow.

His jaw still aches from a fight that he wasn't going to tell John about, but he sets his cheek done against the smooth wood of his instrument for a moment, savoring it. The bow saws lightly over the strings as he plays with his mood, unsure of the direction he wants to take this song. His fingers ease and bend slowly, carefully, and peaceful music flows gently from the violin.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock allows his body to do the work, aimlessly playing while he retreats to his Mind Palace, whispering words under his breath, snatches of childhood songs, pieces of mathematical equations...

He nearly forgets where he is, until John touches his arm. "Sherlock?"

Slowly, he opens his eyes, and looks at his friend.

John's hair is disheveled with sleep, his eyes watery, face drawn with exhaustion, arms crossed in front of his chest. He hadn't been sleeping well. "You okay?"

The detective blinks "I'm fine."

John sighs, not believing him. "All right then."

Sherlock lets his eyes drift closed again, and begins to play.

The song that comes from the violin is sad, but there is a melody running underneath that just might speak of happiness.

Or maybe Sherlock's emotions are getting in the way.

It wouldn't be the first time.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's playing wakes him.<p>

This isn't the first time it's happened, but John sighs and gets up anyway. Sherlock normally only plays his violin like this when he is upset about something, and an upset Sherlock Holmes is not a person that John is keen to meet.

Sherlock is standing in the living room, his coat still on, face shadowed with a bruise(he got in another fight?) eyes closed, playing.

The music is sad, and it confirms John's suspicions that something is bothering his friend. Slowly, quietly, he takes a few steps closer to Sherlock. The detective's eyes are closed, and from his soft, barely audible whispers, it is clear that he is not focused on anything happening around him.

John touches his arm, lightly. "Sherlock?"

Very slowly, his friend's eyes open, unfocused at first, a faded blue in his pale face, but then he blinks, and they settle on John, probing, observing.

"You okay?" John asks, before Sherlock can complete his scrutiny.

His friend blinks. "I'm fine."

John doesn't believe him, but he doesn't say so. He sighs and turns away. "All right then."

He knows without looking that Sherlock has closed his eyes again, and soon the violin music is following John down the hallway. The army doctor climbs into his bed and closes his eyes. wishing that there was some way he could speak to Sherlock like the violin did, soothe his wild emotions like playing did, and comfort him like the mournful songs.

But John doesn't know how to do that, and he feels helpless. He wonders if Sherlock will do something stupid now, that John left him in that room with only his violin and a mind full of wild ideas.

It wouldn't be the first time.


	23. Chapter 23

**Hope you enjoy these slightly bizarre little one-shots. **

**thanks Zacha for the prompt about the spiders.  
><strong>

John saw the spider before Sherlock did.

It was not an obscenely large specimen, but it's legs were rather hairy, and John cringed, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't-

But of course he did. Sherlock noticed everything.

As he was bending over the body of a wild serial killer's latest victim, Sherlock saw the spider. He tensed, a strange and odd expression contorted his face and he straightened abruptly.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, slightly concerned. "You all right?"

"Fine." Sherlock snapped, and pushed his hair out of his eyes in a characteristically impatient gesture. "The blood startled me."

John could have laughed. Blood? Bother Sherlock Holmes? The detective was going to need to come up with better lies than that.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "All right then." His tone implied that Sherlock's excuse had not impressed him, and John could hear the paternal worry under the DI's gruffness.

Sherlock remained standing, staring down at the body(and the spider) with clenched fists. He gave no indication that he was going to move anytime soon.

"Sher-"

Before Anderson could get a word in, John came to his friend's aid. "I'll take a look now, shall I?"

Sherlock shot him a quick, grateful look. "Yes, Doctor Watson, that would be appreciated."

Lestrade's eyebrows were nearly at his hairline.

Grinning, John bent down to examine the body, subtle flicking the spider away when no one was watching.

He thought he heard Sherlock mutter, "thank god," though, after John finished his examination and stood up to let Lestrade take over.

"You're welcome," He whispered.

Sherlock only turned the collar of his coat up against the rain, nodded sharply, and ducked under the bright yellow tape that surrounded the crime scene.

John shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and followed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock like cats.<p>

He liked the way they moved-soft and subtle-and he liked how they so easily cared about nothing. He liked how quick and agile they were, how they could see in the dark and run as fast as shadows.

If he could figure out how to train one, he thought a cat would make an excellent assistant.

But he didn't need one now.

He had John.

John, he decided, was worth ten cats.


	24. Chapter 24

**Thank you to, RittannasFire for the prompts: winter skyline, and, Dagger. **

**Watson's Warrior, your prompts are next!  
><strong>

**Please review :D  
><strong>

The first snowflakes were just starting to fall when Sherlock stepped out onto the sidewalk.

He hadn't been outside for more than two weeks, and the bright light hurt his eyes. He blinked several times, and felt his brother's hand brush the small of his back, a comforting gesture.

"Is John safe?" He whispers, breathes really, as he exhales in a sigh and schools his features into a neutral expression.

"Yes," Mycroft says, just as softly. "I have seen to that. You should go soon, Sherlock. Moriarty's web spreads everyday with news of his death."

Sherlock nods, and flips the collar of his coat up against his cheekbones, John's voice laughing in his mind, _Turning up the collar of your coat so you look cool. _

His throat tightens and he swallows hard, raising a hand to call for a taxi to take him to the airport across the world to track down the killers who would hurt his friends, his only friends in the world, if given the chance.

The wind slices through the lining of his coat, stinging his newly stitched wounds and making him shiver, but he welcomes the cold, it takes his mind off of-

_No. _He would not think of the endless falling, Moriarty's laughter, the blast of a gunshot, John's scream-

_Stop!_

The taxi diver pulls up in front of him and he slips in without a word to his brother. Mycroft will be in touch.

Resting his head against the coolness of the cab window, he thinks of John and his friendship and his PTSD and his laugh, and the time with Henry in Baskerville when John had tried to help him, of his girlfriends and his need for adventure...

The snow was falling harder by the time he stepped out of the car, and bent his head to fend off the wind.

John would have laughed at the way Sherlock's scarf blew across his face, at the way he spluttered indignantly and tried to flip it back.

And he would have sighed and said something comforting and awkward and so _john _when Sherlock bowed his head against the icy gray back drop of the winter skyline, and cried.

* * *

><p>The dagger was soaked in blood.<p>

John fingered it experimentally, not really believing his eyes. "Sherlock, what is this?"

The detective sauntered into the living room, wrapped in a sheet with his hair rumpled like a four year old's, his eyes half lidded with tiredness, his expression saying that he was in a devious mood. "What's what, John?"

"This dagger?" John held it up.

Sherlock blinked at if for a moment before grinning. "Oh, that...Lestrade gave it to me yesterday. The blood's a nice touch, don't you think?"

"What?" John was thoroughly confused.

His friend laughed and threw himself down onto the couch. "Oh, John. If Anderson thinks I'm a physcopath and can't be convinced otherwise, I might as well play the part well, don't you think?"

John rolled his eyes. "Just don't tell me where you got the blood from Sherlock, I really don't want to know."

"Don't you?" the detective murmured, fingering his violin with absent, restless hands. He smirked at John's raised eyebrow. "We'll see about that, Doctor Watson."


End file.
